Giving Up
by JamieCavanaugh
Summary: Sherlock is bored, again. He dismisses a client, mistaking him for another boring one. Little does he know that this will be one of the biggest challenges yet. And something is not quite right . . . Has Sherlock lost his edge? And what of John? Something is very wrong.
1. Boring!

Sherlock sat on the sofa, absently plucking at the strings to his violin at random. With his eyes closed, one might have mistakenly thought that he was preoccupied with thoughts, but John knew better. As easily as he could the newspaper in front of him, John could read every emotion on Sherlock, and from the slight crinkling of his flat mate's nose, he knew Sherlock was resisting the urge to shoot the wall.

"Why must everyone be so boring?" Sherlock questioned the air. He plucked a high note and, as though it brought him back to life, he leapt up from the sofa and began to walk quickly to his room.

"They're not Sherlock. For God's sake, you have cases piling up, and you won't take them because they're 'boring'! There's the woman who vanished, leaving a number valid only in Tonga, a watchmaker who swears that elves have started coming to clean his watches and a couple who came separately, claiming the other had been replaced! Just take one of them." John yelled after him, throwing his newspaper down on the table, preparing himself for what was to come.

Loud noises came from Sherlock's room, as though the furniture was literally being thrown over. He ran out, looking a bit wild, his eyes darting around the kitchen. He sprang to cupboards, yanking them open and glaring inside. He cast his eyes across the living room, suddenly falling on John.

"You. You and Mrs. Hudson hid them." He accused, his voice filled with resentment.

"What?" John asked innocently.

"My cigarettes!" Sherlock shouted. "Give them back."

"Sherlock you-"

"No! My brain is rotting! Nothing challenging is left. My mind needs to do something. Give me a puzzle, the hardest cryptogram you can think of and I am in my element. Give me domesticity and you shall witness the fall of Sherlock Holmes." He spoke dramatically, falling to the sofa.

John sighed. He went through these childish tantrums more often than he'd like. He walked over to the window, praying for the umpteenth time for there to be a client outside. He smiled.

"I don't think you'll have to be bored for much longer. A client is coming." John looked expectantly at Sherlock, hoping against hope to see some change in his manner. Yet, when he saw the usual blankness, he couldn't help but feel frustrated at Sherlock's continued boredom after John had tried to get him excited for a case. He marveled at it sometimes; how easily he would get excited at the possibly of a case while Sherlock clearly couldn't care less, appreciating them only for their interest-value.

"I doubt that they'll have anything interesting to say." Sherlock stated distractedly picking up his violin again.

"Do try to be a bit optimistic about this one." John said, exasperated. He walked over and opened the door, just in time to see Mrs. Hudson climbing up with a morbidly obese client.

"Oh, thank God you opened. Didn't you hear the doorbell?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sighing heavily as though in pain. Seeing John shake his head, she continued. "I'll have to have that fixed. You see, my hip has been giving me trouble-" She began, stopping abruptly when she saw the client glaring at her. She was trapped in his gaze for a moment, breaking away and running back down. _Something about his eyes,_ she thought, shaking herself when she reached the bottom. John didn't notice how hostile the client was behaving, focused only on what the case might be, hoping that it might be interesting enough to save the wall for another week.

"Please come in." He asked, waiting patiently for the man to lumber up the stairs. "Sit down." He requested, motioning to the chair. As he watched him, John slowly realized how much this man repulsed him. With his appearance, personal hygiene and the general aura of hatred that seemed to cling to him. John walked over to his desk and absently opened his laptop.

"Mr. Holmes-" The client began, before being interrupted by Sherlock's sarcastic voice.

"Really John? You think that this is the man you could bring me out of my boredom? I doubt it. Look at him." Sherlock spoke, taking a deep breath. "There are line impressions below his wrists, clearly an office worker, or at least uses a laptop. Then his shirt. At the shoulder, a small piece has been sewn on, a slight different shade of blue. One may think sentimental value but the collar has dirt marks, neglected. So financial problems, judging from the wrinkles on his forehead. Just above the eyebrows and nose. These tend to come with long term worry, rather than anger, which results in horizontal lines. Then his, frankly, appalling health. Perspiration on forehead and under the arm. So terrible physical condition, obvious from his weight. But yet, not single. You have a girlfriend. You have traces of lipstick on your cheek and your clothes were definitely not chosen by you; it's too well co-ordinated. But I doubt she'll be with you long. She ignored the little patch of stubble on your chin that you missed when shaving." Sherlock got up and walked slowly towards the client, his voice increasing volume and anger. "To summarize, just another _boring_ client!"

Sherlock came near the spitting the last words in the client's face. Then he whispered softly, yet his voice retained every bit of disgust, "So tell me, why are _you_ worth my time?"


	2. Just Crazy

Hi, to all my amazing readers. I know, I haven't updated in ages but in my defence, I'm suffering from an illness. It's called writer's block AND I JUST CAN'T AND IT'S KILLING ME. More tragic news, I'm on summer vacation and will be traveling for the next couple weeks with no wifi, so yeah, sorry, don't hurt me. But you know what makes me update faster? SEEING REVIEWS. Like when I saw my second reviewer for this story, I knew I had to write. SO HAVE FUN READING AWESOME PEOPLE.

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"So tell me, why are _you _worth my time?"

"My girlfriend . . . What?" The man asked wide-eyed, clearly taken aback by Sherlock's words. His hands flew to his chin, stroking the bit of stubble that Sherlock had expertly noticed. He seemed lost for a second, glancing at John through his glassy eyes, as though seeking guidance. He looks down at his feet.

When he looks up again, he isn't the same man, as though he just put on a mask, a mask that he was used to wearing. His eyes seem sharper, colder and far more dangerous. His gaze pierces Sherlock's, as though expecting the world's only consulting detective to shrivel under them; he was testing Sherlock.

Even though the man's eyes were elsewhere, John could feel the intensity with which the man was looking at Sherlock; he himself could feel himself shrinking, wanting desperately for something to happen. He fixed his eyes on the laptop screen, pretending to be busy. At the edges of his vision, he could see Sherlock's straight back, his hawk like eyes squinting as he met the strangers unspoken challenge, warning him, daring him to continue so that Sherlock could continue the battle of strong wills.

But the stranger caved, a small shudder traveled through his large body, like ripples in water. He again seemed different, still strong but an element of humility had entered his expression; almost as though he was in awe, amazed that Sherlock had passed the test, as though accepting that Sherlock may be useful to him.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here today to ask for your help. Your protection to be exact." The stranger spoke slowly, as if to prevent tripping over any word. Seeing Sherlock's brow rise, he continues with more confidence. "My name, hardly important I'd think, but all the same, is Adam Wright. You see, Mr. Holmes, I think I'm being followed." Upon seeing Sherlock roll his eyes and open his mouth to interrupt, Adam rushed on, " I'm not being paranoid! I keep seeing these people, all dressed in black, following me. They disappear into crowds if I try to look for them but they were there. They've been following me for weeks now. Please, I need your help." Adam finished, looking helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up, turning away, "John, please show Mr. Wright out." He barely glanced at John, walking with determined steps towards the flats exit, pausing only to grab his wallet.

John was sulking inside. He'd hoped that this client would bring an interesting case but it didn't seem like Sherlock had as yet fallen for the bait. Mrs. Hudson's wall would be on the receiving end of his irritation once again but that was secondary. Right now, John had to make sure that Sherlock didn't spend the whole days hunting London for a store that would sell him cigarettes. He grabbed his coat from the chair and was already thinking of how to distract him. He vaguely remembered the client, sitting on the chair, frozen with a bewildered expression on his plump face.

"Wait, what? No, you must help me, please. I'm willing to offer you any amount of money. Just help me." The man pleaded, his eyes going round and his stomach bulging out as he attempted to pull himself up from the depths of the chair.

Sherlock paused and turned, his eyes heartless. "Mr. Wright, I'd suggest you look to a psychiatrist for help, rather than a consulting detective. I'd suggest Dr. Louise Mortimer who happens to be in London for a month or so; she is seems to specialize in making men accept the truth. Goodbye" Sherlock spoke quickly, near running out the door.

John looks back at the client, sort of awkwardly, "Yes, well, I suppose that you'd better be going. I'm really very sorry about that. Um, good luck and goodbye" John said, not meeting the client's gaze. Just as he turned around, he felt strong hands grasp his arm, the grip tightening. He jerked back, looking into the client's sudden bloodshot eyes.

"Listen to me, Dr. Watson, and listen carefully. I'm going to end up dead soon because your friend there just refused to take me seriously. Just promise me one thing. I want him to be the person that finds out the truth. Because I'm not crazy, I swear." Adam let go of John's hand roughly, walking out of the door, clinging to the railings as he made what seemed to be a difficult journey down the stairs.

John just stood there, listening to the echoes of the front door slamming. He was flushed and could feel a thin layer of perspiration building up on his forehead. He was frozen, somehow unable to move. Somehow, the client fixed himself inside John's head. John suddenly felt dizzy, tired as his limbs turned to lead.

_I can allow Sherlock one day of weakness,_ he thought, reminding himself of Sherlock's hunt for cigarettes, as he felt himself fall on the chair, the heaviness spreading to his head until he felt himself drifting off to sleep.


End file.
